Punishment
by CarrionEater
Summary: Impertinence and disobedience must be punished.


_Punishment_

A/N: I usually do this at the bottom, but here the warning would come too late: this story shortly follows my silly one-shot, 'Hello Pot; Meet Kettle'. Among other things, it contains robo-guro. You might not like that. I do.

Ye be warned.

Maybe it could be considered a talent, Carrion didn't know, the way he and Starscream could slip from rage to romance in the space of a few kliks. There was always a tension between them; violent or sexual, it depended on the circumstance.

It really wasn't fair, because while Carrion always felt he was playing catch-up, Starscream was completely in control of himself. He could turn the tables on the smaller jet before Carrion had time to realize the last quip had meant something other than its basest meaning. Being larger and more experienced, Starscream always has the upper hand in bedroom athletics, but the younger jet makes up for his lack of proficiency with willing energy.

Pressing him against the wall, Starscream exercises his reach and flexibility, using one hand to pin Carrion's wrists above his head while the claws of the other glide teasingly over the layered armor of his neck, grazing the curve of his shoulder before sliding down his chest. Carrion isn't even sure when they'd found their way to the floor, but he's kind of glad they have; the sensation of his Commander's claws slipping into the sensitive seams of his armor make his processor haze with static. He doesn't think he'd be able to keep himself on his feet like this.

A low sound eases its way out of his vocals when the larger seeker bows his head and traces his glossa along the seam that flows from beneath Carrion's optic to his mouth. It's gross, he thinks, but in a kind of nice way, and the way Starscream kisses him forces away any thought of complaining.

Except, as much as he's enjoying himself (and he is, folks, we can be sure of that), the pull of his damaged arm over his head is becoming increasingly unpleasant, becoming down right agonizing, and he can't help squirming against the hands holding and caressing him. When Starscream at last backs off a little, the smaller jet manages to mumble "arm… _hurts_," for all the good it does.

Smirking, the older mech puts a little more strain on the captured limbs before relaxing, keeping only the hastily repaired arm in his grip. It's truly a testament to Carrion's talent that the limb is functioning well enough to even feel pain, considering that only an hour ago it had been shot clean off and looked, to Starscream at least, like scrap. Stubborn as always, Carrion made repairs right there on the field, under fire. Dangerous, stupid, unnecessary; his actions had been exactly what Starscream called them, which by no means meant he was going to give the old jet the satisfaction of admitting it.

"Whose fault is that, hmm?" the larger mech asks, moving his teasing claws from Carrion's thigh to the ruin of his arm. Carrion fights against the way his body wants to twitch and hitch at the contact, but some things cannot be helped. Talons carefully trace torn metal, brush clipped circuits and wires, neither hurting nor pleasing, silently promising either agony or pleasure. The glint in Starscream's optics makes the smaller jet whine and try futilely to pull out of that grip, but there is no escape.

Claws tear over a severed circuit, sending a flame of pain through Carrion's body; the sound the young jet makes seems to pull a wider smile to Starscream's face. With a twist and a tug, the Commander pulls back the poorly welded armor that hides the hastily repaired wiring of the arm. Offering another little whine, this one less controlled than any of the other sounds the young jet has yet allowed to escape, Carrion arches his back and gives up his attempts to pull away, instead twisting his head to watch as the larger flier curls close over him even as he draws the wounded limb in toward himself.

Every raw servo and wire lights in sympathetic agony as Starscream presses his mouth against the most severe of the splits in the plating. The gesture is something between a kiss and a bite, mouth opening and his denta closing on some uneven edge that makes Carrion spasm despite himself. And it should be horrible; he should feel degraded and angry and hurt to be treated so, but the real problem is that he doesn't feel those things to any real capacity. They're there, like the shadows of ideas; thoughts he knows he should be having, but they aren't at the forefront where he needs them.

Instead, he is in a strange way enjoying this. Yes, he's trapped; yes, Starscream is stronger than him… Starscream is cruel and violent and powerful, and it's scary in a vague way. But he can't help but think, as the larger jet works his mangled arm over with denta and claw, of how that strength and power and crazy maniacal capability could be used for him, against their enemies. Starscream could rip the spark from another mech's chest without flickering an optic. He knew more about torture that was probably strictly healthy.

Being pinned under his claws was almost an honor; like being reminded of how strong his mate was and how easily he could flick Carrion aside. Starscream can protect him as easily as he can rip him to pieces, and that's what makes this so perfectly okay.

Denta snap closed on a thin hose and the young Decepticon feels the hot rush of his own energon spilling down the exposed infrastructure of his arm. It's disgustingly agonizing, and he gives a soft cry of pain, the expulsion hitching like a sob as his optics flicker and dim. Something in that general area pinches and after a moment the heat fades to a dull ache, the cable flattened to a seal, so as to prevent an extraneous waste of energon. Even like this, Starscream has the sense not to be overly profligate. When his Commander's face hovers into view, a thin smear of energon colors the metal at both corners of his mouth, thin rivulets running toward his jawline.

It's revolting and obscene; forget about it being Carrion's own lifeblood running down his lover's face for a moment and consider simply that Starscream would deign be so primitive – it's really almost brutish – to bite him that way.

Even still, there is something Carrion finds undeniably attractive about seeing his mate this way. Perhaps part of it _is_ that he knows the energon once flowed through his systems; he is ever willing to bleed for the pleasure of his bonded, and seeing it on Starscream's face seemed rather appropriate for all its wrongness. Beyond that, there is the smug grin, an expression that makes Carrion bare his denta in a grimace despite how it excites him – he will fight against a smile every time he sees the older mech smirk thus. It is so self-satisfied, so superior; it's a look Carrion loves, and hates to admit it.

A claw works under a bundle of cables; wires that pass neural information from his possessor down to his hand, and vice versa, from sensitive claws back to CPU. In a way, they serve much the same function as nerves and tendons would a human, and as such, when Starscream puts strain on them, Carrion's battered arm sends out blaring pain signals, and his claws twitch against his will. He grits his denta and curls his talons against the scream that is almost shocked out of him.

"I am forced to wonder," the larger jet growls, narrowed optics bright on the stressed cables under claw, "if you simply did not hear my command to retreat, or if you chose to ignore me." That dangerous gaze switched from arm to Carrion's face, brooking none of the foolish babble the young seeker might otherwise have uttered. "One is sheer stupidity, while the other is direct disobedience."

He let the words hang for a moment, watching the smaller mech's face. They both knew the answer to the unasked question, just as they both new that Carrion's stubborn insubordination would not be disciplined to the extent it ought. All the same, there was a game that demanded playing, and neither of them would miss it for anything.

As the silence drew longer and Carrion seemed to be preparing to speak, Starscream sawed his claw against the wires in his grip, ruining any words than might have been formed as the youth cried out in once again verb-less agony. There was no question of taking this too far, for he was the Commander and Carrion his soldier, and he knew from decades of experimentation how far to push. "Either way, you deserve punishment."

Releasing the cables that have already been so abused, Starscream wraps his claws around Carrion's more solid upper arm. Even here the armor is torn and dented thin, almost useless; it tears when Starscream gives the slightest wrench to the limb, and Carrion whines more out of anticipation than actual pain. Just above where he's gripping is the thick line of unfinished soldering holding the infrastructure of the arm together. If he applies enough pressure, it would be all too easy to break the limb right back off, and he says enough.

"Why shouldn't I," he adds, his voice hissing through the dark, close in the confines of Carrion's quarters but not within kissing distance. "What better punishment can you think of?"

Carrion has more than a few suggestions, some of which he's not even sure they can physically accomplish (but he would absolutely love trying), but his quavering reply is cut off by the whisper of his door opening.

There is time for Starscream to shoot him an angry, horrified glare – one that doesn't need words behind it to ask 'who in the Pit did you give your key code' – before the light from the ship's corridors pierces the dim, and an all too familiar voice speaks up.

"Hey, Carri, I think I got something that would work to replace my optic, but Knock Out still says he's busy," Axedent says, his voice carrying in the stillness. Carrion finds it a little impressive that Starscream let his brat get that far without interrupting.

But no further; he turns his venomous glare from Carrion to Axedent and starts to climb to his feet, voice lowered in its most dangerous growl as he says, "So are we, whelp. Get out!"

Stunned – by all signs, probably caught in the horror of catching two mech in the compromising position he's found his Commander and Carrion – Axedent just stands there, his remaining eye doing a little twitch. This would amuse the green jet, except it really does seem to be distracting Starscream from their earlier activities, and so he lurches up despite the protest his arm gives, and latches his good claw around his Commander's wrist, holding him back from advancing on the kid.

"Come on," he purrs, tugging a little, "I thought we were talking about _my_ punishment."

It was amusing to watch the kid – if he were human, he'd probably have puked at that one – lift his hands in a placating, or perhaps warding off gesture, uttering a quiet, rushed apology, and scurry away. But Carrion was really only paying half attention, finding himself much more enraptured by the slow turn of his mate's legs, his dangerous chuckle, his predatory prowl.

"Ahh yes," Starscream hissed, his voice covering the sound of the door sliding back closed, "that we were."

A/N, again: I probably also should have warned about the other OMC in the story, the fancharacter of Ocellite (v2point0 here on FFN). Axedent is a rather adorably awkward character, appearing in a few of my newer one-shots. He is, to Carrion's eternal dismay, the accidental and most shunned child of Starscream and Megatron; despite this horrific heritage, he and Carrion are quite friendly, with Carrion taking something of an older-brother/negligent step-mother sort of role in the younger Con's life.


End file.
